From Here
by mistymidnight
Summary: A slayer, a witch, an ex demon, and an eternal snob...mothers? Response to gidgetgirl's Beltane Babies challenge.
1. Prologue

**Title: **From Here

**Author: **mistymidnight

**Rating: **Meh...PG-13?

**Disclaimer: **Joss Whedon, as always, owns the characters and BtVS. Gidgetgirl owns the plot of the fic.

**Spoilers/Timeline: **Takes place after season four (BtVS) and season one (AtS), but does not follow the canon of seasons five and two.

**Summary:** A slayer, a witch, an ex-demon, and an eternal snob--mothers?

**Author's Notes: **Yeah, it's another gidgetgirl challenge. I really ought to be working on Willow Rosenberg, Child Psychologist...maybe I will after I write up this chapter. Huh. Who knows?

CHALLENGE DETAILS:

THE BELTANE BABIES CHALLENGE

Back in the day, on Beltane, couples would make love to honor the gods... in some societies, children who were conceived on Beltane were thought to have special powers...

Enter the Buffy crew, in the modern world. They, like most of the rest of the world, have no idea it's Beltane, and an angry (or mischievous) fertility goddess wreaks havoc on them by causing them all to have sex (and conceive) with whatever member of the opposite sex is most handy.

Flash forward nine months, and you have a bunch of Scooby and fang gang offspring, all born within a week or so of each other, all with some form of special powers, as a result of being Beltane babies.

Options:  
Between 3-7 kids.  
The couples may be conventional, unconventional, incredible unconventional, or a mix.  
The story may take place during conception, when the kids are babies, when they're small children, or when they're teens.

Requirements:  
Some, but not all, of the makeshift couples must end up together.

One of the kids must be a firestarter.

One of the kids must be a little girl who loves boys and always has a minimum of three 'boyfriends.'

Something odd must happen on Beltane, as their birthdays approach.

I started writing this a long, looooooong time ago, and I came across it in my documents folder tonight. It could be the lack of sleep in control here, but I decided to post it. Let me know what you think—love it, hate it, don't care one way or the other, etc. But no flames, please. Much thanks.

**Prologue**

I have the absolute _weirdest_ family on the planet. Seriously. It's not even debatable. My parents hate each other. Okay, granted, that's not really uncommon these days, but I mean they really hate each other. Like "I'm-gonna-kill-you-and-your-little-dog-too" hate. And don't tell me I need counseling, 'cause I don't. After I tell you my story, though, you might be ready to call in the nice men with their white coats and butterfly nets, because you'll call me crazy. And I can't really say I blame you. I'd call me crazy, too, if I could.

And now I'm babbling. Apparently babbling is something you learn rather than inherit, because my Aunt Willow babbles all the time. I've never heard my mom babble, even though Aunt Willow claims it's a fairly frequent occurrence. She claims that my mother is just as bad as a babbler as she is. So, then again, maybe it is inherited.

My mother says I inherited just about all her traits. Well, she says that when she's in a good mood. When I've done something really dumb, she says something like "It's all your father's fault". Either that or she mutters something pretty much unintelligible except for the words "Spike" "damn" and "gene pool". I told you my parents hate each other.

But I'm probably confusing you. So you should go back to the beginning and find out how all this began. Well, maybe not to the _very_ beginning, because that's all groin-y-ness and there's an ick factor. But closer to the beginning. Does that make any sense? Probably not. I'm really crappy at explaining things. So I'll just let you see for yourself.

Welcome to my world. It's like this...

* * *

**September, 2000**

Buffy looked down at her new boots. Or rather, tried to look down. She could only see the tips of her shoes from the angle she was at--her big, pregnant belly was in the way. Buffy sighed. _Only a couple more months, _she told herself. In the meantime, however, she needed to do something--anything--to distract herself from the half-gallon of Fudge Ripple Deluxe that sat in the freezer.

She walked over to her nightstand and picked up a pad of Post-Its and a pen. Scribbling something on it, she tore the top Post-It off and stuck it firmly to her shirt.

The next time she tried to look down at her boots, she saw the note attached to her stomach: _Sorry for the inconvenience. P.S.: Those are stunning boots._

_It's lame,_ Buffy thought, _but whatever.

* * *

_

Cordelia sat at her desk. The windows were open. _Perfect,_ she thought, licking a stamp and applying it to an envelope. _Nothing like a little fresh smog._

The elevator creaked and Angel walked in, silent as usual, careful to stay away from the open windows.

"Don't say good morning or anything," Cordelia snapped from her desk. The little moral voice inside her was telling her she ought to shut the window so her boss could get around the office without crumbling into dust, but the rest of her was just telling the voice to shut up. _Men_, she thought, slapping a stamp onto an envelope with a little more force than was necessary. _I hate men. _

Angel glanced her way. "Have you seen Wesley yet today?"

"Wesley," Cordelia snapped. "Must we talk about Wesley? I've got a constant reminder right here." She glanced down at her belly. _Sorry, kid,_ she thought. _I'm not mad at you. It's all your father's fault. _

"Uh, Cordelia, I--"

"Tell me that you understand how I feel and I will rip out your un-beating heart," Cordelia told him, not looking up from the envelopes she was now sorting. "And no, I haven't seen Wesley."

As if on cue, Wesley burst in through the office door. "Good morning," he said.

There was an awkward silence. There'd been a lot of that since May.

"Hey," Angel said finally, mostly just to break the quiet spell.

"Joy," Cordelia said dryly, "Wesley's here."

Wesley and Angel ignored her as much as possible and went off to Angel's office, discussing some kind of demon the oozed pus or something equally gross. Cordelia sat alone in the sun. The telephone stared at her from its spot on the desk.

Before she knew what she was doing, she had picked up the phone and was dialing Sunnydale.

Sometimes a girl needs moral support.

* * *

Of all the mommies-to-be, Anya seemed to be the only one totally unbothered by her pregnancy. When everyone else had been in the panicked "oh-my-God-what-have-I-done" stage, Anya had been deciding on colors for the baby's room (wherever it might end up being--hopefully not in Xander's parents' basement) and thinking about names. But then again, Anya was the only one lucky enough to actually be pregnant with her boyfriend's child. Everyone else had not been quite so lucky: Buffy and Spike, Cordelia and Wesley, Willow and Oz. The whole Willow-Oz baby was putting a bit of a strain--to say the least--on Willow and Tara's relationship. Anya couldn't help but feel a little badly for them.

But she mostly just thought about baby things: clothes and toys and bottles and, of course, the need of a steady income. And diapers. Sometimes she had nightmares about diapers. So far, they were the only real thing she was dreading, even more so than the birth itself. Well, Anya had always been good in dealing with pain. Diapers--not so much.

* * *

"Willow? Where are you?"

"Here," Willow answered from her spot on the floor. She was sitting amidst a pile of old magazines, flipping through the pages absently.

Tara walked into Willow's field of vision, cordless phone in hand. "Sweetie, it's Cordelia."

"Is everything okay?" Willow asked, a feeling of worry creeping into her chest.

Tara smiled. "Everything's fine. She's just calling for a little mommy-to-mommy support."

"Oh, okay, then," Willow replied, holding her hand out for the phone. Tara handed it over and then returned to the kitchen, where she had been making lunch for the two of them, leaving Willow alone with a pile of magazines and on the phone with an irritated Cordelia.

"Hey, Cordy," Willow began delicately. Usually when Cordelia called, it was to vent about her problems. Normally, this wouldn't be so horrible, but once her raging hormones were thrown into the mix, Cordelia was not exactly a fun phone-friend.

"Willow!" Cordelia groaned. "Why? Why is this happening to me?"

Willow sighed. She got asked this question on a regular basis—sometimes by Buffy, but mostly by Cordelia. Never by Anya, though.

"It's just…" Cordelia trailed off. "It's _Wesley,_ for crying out loud! Wesley!"

"I know, Cordy."

"God, how embarrassing. I slept with _Wesley_."

Willow examined her fingernails and decided she needed to file them. It wasn't that she was _trying_ to be rude in not paying attention to Cordelia's ranting; it was more that she'd heard the same exact spiel almost every week since Cordy had found out she was pregnant.

"With Wesley, Willow. Why? I was _so_ over him. I still am."

"I take it things are still awkward over there?"

"Duh! How could they not be?"

"Cordelia, you've been calling me every week for four months. And I'm gonna give you the same advice this week as I've given you every other week: You have to talk to him."

"I know. But I'm trying out another idea."

"And this idea is…"

"I leave town and change my identity."

"That's not a solution. That's an escape plan."

"I think it'd work."

Willow sighed, then turned as she heard Tara enter the room.

"Lunch is ready," Tara told her.

"Okay, thanks, baby. I'll be there in a minute." She turned her attention back to the telephone. "Listen, I gotta go. But talk to Wesley. You're only making this harder on both of you, okay? Bye."

She hung up before Cordelia could reply.

_Some might call it cold-hearted_, Willow thought, _but I can always blame it on the hormones.

* * *

_

Okay--definitely not my best. Pretty darn bad, actually. But it'll get better. (It has to, right? I mean, I don't think it can get much worse.)

Just in case you haven't figured it out, the babies' biological parents will be Buffy/Spike, Anya/Xander, Willow/Oz, and Cordelia/Wesley. But don't take these couples for granted--at least two romantic pairings will change.

I checked everything out—Beltane would occur, in the Buffyverse, around the episode "New Moon Rising", thus the Willow/Oz-ness. And in the Angelverse, it would be around the episode "Sanctuary".

mistymidnight


	2. Paint Samples, Names, and Phone Calls

**Title: **From Here

**Author: **mistymidnight

**Rating: **Meh...PG-13? Or T, or whatever politically correct version of film ratings ff. net is using nowadays.

**Disclaimer: **Joss Whedon, as always, owns the characters and BtVS. Gidgetgirl owns the plot of the fic.

**Spoilers/Timeline: **Takes place after season four (BtVS) and season one (AtS), but does not follow the canon of seasons five and two.

**Summary:** A slayer, a witch, an ex-demon, and an eternal snob--mothers?

**Author's Notes: **Wow, lotsa reviews for just the first chapter. In fact, there are almost as many reviews for this _one _chapter I've posted (10 so far) as there are for all _five_ chapters of 'Willow Rosenberg, Child Psychologist' (14). But I digress. (No! Don't just brush it off! Don't you see? I was guilt-tripping you all!)

Anyway, I'm not quite sure where I'm going with this, so bear with me.

**Paint Samples, Names, and Phone Calls**

"No. It's too sea-green-y. It'll make the baby seasick."

Joyce looked at her daughter, one eyebrow raised. "The baby or you?"

Buffy slid the paint samples across the counter of the hardware store toward the bored-looking salesgirl, who replaced the paint samples in the display rack with the other, less nauseating colors. "I'm honestly not sure," she replied. "And it doesn't really matter, anyway. It's pointless to be looking at paint samples for a baby room when we don't even know where the baby room's gonna be." Joyce opened her mouth to protest, but was cut off by Buffy in mid-rant. "Don't even say you know what we'll do. I can't raise a baby in the dorms. I probably won't even be able to stay in college. And it's not like we have a bunch of spare rooms lying around the house. The baby'll most likely be staying in my room, and painting my room any baby-friendly color is pointless anyway, because all the stupid pregnancy books say that babies don't see in color."

Joyce sighed and hoisted her purse strap back up onto her shoulder, knowing she was defeated. "Okay, maybe I shouldn't have taken you to the hardware store with me. Next time I need wall mountings, I'll just come by myself."

"Probably not a bad idea, seeing as then I won't be here to get distracted by useless paint colors in the first place." There was a pause. "Wanna go get lunch?"

Joyce nodded and began to walk toward the cash register to pay for her purchase, her daughter in tow.

* * *

"I don't understand why we can't name her Nickel. It's a perfectly good name." 

Xander Harris rubbed his forehead. "Anya, hon, you can't name your child after currency."

Anya frowned. "That's not true. People name their daughters 'Penny' all the time."

"That's because it probably means something deep and meaningful in a dead language."

"It doesn't. I'm sure of it. So if people can name their children Penny, why can't I name my child Nickel?"

Xander sighed yet again. "Because kids hate their parents already, as a general rule. You don't need to make the situation worse by naming them after currency."

"Nickel is a nice name!"

"If you want to embarrass the hell out of the kid."

"There are plenty of names worse than Nickel. Like Ruth. Why would someone name their child Ruth?"

Xander considered for a second, before replying, "I don't like the name Ruth, either. But we can't name our daughter Nickel."

Anya pouted. "Fine, you can veto my choice. But I get to veto one of yours."

"Go ahead."

There was a long pause, before Anya finally ventured, "You know, sweetie, before I can veto one of your suggestions, you have to actually suggest something."

* * *

Cordelia sat in the office, filing papers, waiting for Angel and Wesley to come back from slaying the current demon-of-the-week. She had to admit it: she was a little nervous. Okay, more than a little. She didn't know why. True, she had decided to finally talk about her…current situation…with Wesley, but it shouldn't be bothering her this much. _I mean, I slept with Wesley, _she thought to herself, rolling a piece of paper into a tube shape. _Wesley! In theory, the worst part should be over._

She unrolled the paper tube and then began to roll it up again, this time in the opposite direction. _I guess it could be worse. I could be pregnant with demon spawn again. So much for swearing off sex forever._

The door opened and Wesley and Angel came in. Cordelia felt her nervousness grow even greater.

"Uh, I've gotta go…do…something," she said in a rush, grabbing her coat and making as speedy an exit as she could. _Why do I have to be such a chicken about this?

* * *

_

"You're making progress," Willow assured a frustrated Cordelia later that afternoon, as she twisted the telephone cord in her fingers. "You got up the courage to do it this time, even if you didn't go through with it. That's something."

"It's not 'something' enough," Cordelia protested, taking the bowl of ice cream phantom Dennis had offered her. "I just can't do it, Willow." She took a bite of ice cream, then inspiration struck. "Hey, maybe you can do it for me! Y'know, it'll be like a spy movie. You wear some kind of high-tech earpiece, and you can talk to Wesley, and I'll just tell you what to say from a safe distance away."

"'A safe distance'? Cordelia, he's the father of your child, not a terrorist."

Cordelia groaned. "I know! It's just so hard! Why is it so hard?"

"Because he's your friend. And it's awkward."

"Thank you, States-the-Obvious Rosenberg."

"It'll be less awkward once you talk to him."

"I know." There was silence on the line before Willow spoke up.

"Besides, where would we get a high-tech spy earpiece, anyway?"

* * *

mistymidnight 


	3. The Name Game, Checkups, and Ice Cream

**Title: **From Here

**Author: **mistymidnight

**Rating: **Meh...PG-13? Or T, or whatever the politically correct rating is these days.

**Disclaimer: **Joss Whedon, as always, owns the characters and BtVS (and AtS). Gidgetgirl owns the plot of the fic.

**Spoilers/Timeline: **Takes place after season four (BtVS) and season one (AtS), but does not follow the canon of seasons five and two.

**Summary:** A slayer, a witch, an ex-demon, and an eternal snob--mothers?

**Author's Notes: **Okay, throw me a flipping bone here, people! This story has the most hits of all my fics (262), but only 18 reviews. Do the math!

Reviewers with questions:

YelloSparkStardust: Wes knows Cordy's pregnant and he knows it's his, but they haven't talked about anything regarding the baby yet.

Sun-chan1: That's a good question about abortion. Let's just say that the story would not be so interesting if no one was having kids. (grammar?) In other words, I'm graciously letting you draw your own conclusion 'cause I'm too lazy to address it in the plot.

**The Name Game, Check-Ups, and Ice Cream Motivation**

Buffy stared at the Cocoa Crispies floating around in the formerly white milk of her cereal bowl. She swirled her spoon around in the cereal and then turned her attention back to the newspaper funnies. She watched out of the corner of her eye as her mother came in, dressed jeans and a sweater, and sat down next to her at the counter.

"How are you feeling this morning?" Joyce asked. She glanced at the microwave clock, which read 12:22, and added, "Or should I say, 'this afternoon'?"

Buffy shoved a spoonful of cereal into her mouth. "Chocolatey."

Joyce sighed. "Buffy, I'm serious."

"I'm okay."

"That's good."

There was a brief silence before Joyce asked, "Have you been thinking about names?"

The question caught Buffy off-guard. "Huh?"

"Names for the baby."

"Oh. Not so much." She turned her attention from the conversation back to the funnies.

"The baby will be here before you know it."

"I know, Mom, I know. Just keep reminding me about how I'm hurdling toward hours of painful labor."

Joyce sighed again and smoothed her daughter's hair. "I just mean…it's good to think about these things, Buffy."

"Fine." Buffy was not in the mood to argue. _Might as well get this over with for now._ "If it's a boy, I'll name him…Sonny"—from the cereal box—"and if it's a girl, I'll name her, uh, Cathy"—from the funnies.

Joyce rolled her eyes. "Okay, I get it. I won't bring it up again." She got up to get herself a glass of orange juice, then turned back and grinned playfully at her daughter. "Today."

* * *

"Okay. Today's the day. I'm gonna do it."

Cordelia took a deep breath, looked at herself in the mirror, and then began, "Wesley, I—"

She shook her head in frustration. "I can't, Dennis!" she wailed. "I—I can't…" She took another deep breath, steeled herself for the imaginary conversation, and tried again.

* * *

"Well," the doctor said, returning to the room, "everything looks fine here. Would you like to know the sex of the baby?"

Tara glanced at Willow, who shook her head.

"No, thank you," Tara said, giving Willow's hand a reassuring squeeze. We want to be surprised."

* * *

"Okay, An, I'll consider Emmanuella if you'll at least think about Chloe."

"I don't want to think about Chloe. It's a horrible French name. The French are un-American."

Xander sighed. "Okay, fine, don't think about it. Just don't reject it completely."

"I do reject it!" Anya insisted, the pitch of her voice getting higher with every word. "In fact, I'm exercising my rights as an American and vetoing it. Stupid French name."

"Fine, then I veto Emmanuella."

Anya glared. "Fine. We'll see."

Xander studied her for a second. "What do you mean, 'we'll see'?"

Anya stared back at him, before saying, "Well, I don't really have a good threat yet. But just you wait."

* * *

"Do you think we made the right decision?"

Tara looked at her girlfriend. "About what, sweetie?"

"About the knowing the baby's sex." Willow took Tara's hand and held it as the two of them walked down the sidewalk, back toward their dorm. "It's just…I kinda want to know, don't you?"

Tara stopped. "If you really want to know, we can go back and ask."

Willow considered for a moment, then shook her head. "No," she said, and the pair resumed walking down the sidewalk. They'd gone a few steps when Willow stopped. "I mean, yes. No, wait. No."

"Sweetie, listen to me," Tara said gently, taking both Willow's hands. "I don't mind if you want to know the sex. I don't even mind knowing. If you want to know, we can go back and find out. But I thought you said yourself that nothing else matters as long as the baby is healthy. You know we'll love it the same if it's a girl as we would if it's a boy."

Willow smiled. "You're right," she said, resuming the walk. "Let's wait and be surprised."

* * *

"All right, Dennis, I'm gonna do it. And remember what I said about this ice cream."

The freezer door opened, and a pint of cookie dough ice cream floated in the air for a minute, before it was placed in the back of the freezer and covered with a package of frozen chicken fingers.

"Right," Cordelia nodded. "No matter how much I beg, no matter what I do, don't let me have any of that ice cream—"

The lights in the kitchen flicked on, the off.

Cordelia groaned. "Or _any _ice cream—"

The freezer door shut.

"—until I've talked to Wesley."She picked up her purse and opened the door. "Here goes nothing."

* * *

I swear, I liked the original draft of this chapter better, but my computer deleted it (darn computer. No, wait, I take it back!). Oh, well. REVIEW, please.

mistymidnight


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